March 16, 2011


It's that time of year again. It's so hard for me to remember spring when I'm in the midst of winter. So hard to remember the joy of feeling warm again, so hard to remember the sweet taste of Strawberry Limeades with sunlight on my face.

I love spring.

No really. I love spring.

Someone else I know loved spring. Perhaps she passed it on to me, as I grew up watching her delight in fresh budding trees and planting flowers and nature hikes through the park.

My mom loved spring. Today I miss her a lot.

Every time March comes around, I find myself remembering a lot. I remember her last year, the struggle of watching her life fade from this earth, the pain of wondering every morning, Is this the last time I will see her? Will I ever say "I love you" to her again? Those were hard months.

And yet, they were so beautiful. They are so beautiful. They are marked with grace, a special grace that only terminal illness can bring about.

For now I can't go on. Grief, so fresh, my companion for so many years, wraps itself around me tight, and my heart struggles to beat, much less deal with this deep, unending ache. Oh, how I miss her.